I may be a mom, but I am not a baby person. It took me a long time to admit that to myself much less anyone else. The fact didn’t even occur to me until one of my friends with two kids suggested it. She wasn’t criticizing me. She was just sharing that she wasn’t a baby person and maybe I wasn’t either.
My friend described her mother as a true baby person. Her mother would become flushed when picking up a newborn, baby-talk to it, hold it forever – even just sit and stare at the baby for hours at a time. I did do some of this with my firstborn. But there came a point, every day, when staring out the window was infinitely more interesting than staring at my baby. Fantasies of grocery shopping alone, one of my most hated tasks, tipped me off that maybe my friend was right.
I initially equated this with being a bad mother. Surely if I didn’t want to wrap my life around the baby, there must have been something wrong with me. I was convinced of this and secretly ashamed. I had yearnings to actually work again and check email without balancing an infant across my arm. I wanted to shower without having to sing to a wailing baby waiting in the bouncy seat.
It took another couple of months, if not years, to realize the depth of my friend’s statement. Once my daughter started using sign language at eight months and then talking soon after, I was ecstatic. Her first sentence, “Cat hungry,” said in hand signs sent me over the edge of happiness, way more than any first smile. I loved that Mia could make sentences, tell me her thoughts, and communicate what she saw in her world.
When my daughter was almost two, another close friend commented that I must love this stage, where my daughter could actually play and pretend. She was right. I was much more content than I was my daughter’s first year. By the age of three, when the little kid jokes started, the people drawings progressed to having arms and legs, and make believe stories came on the scene, I was even more convinced of my non-baby person status.
But the full extent of the realization didn’t hit me until I became pregnant with our second child. One day several women, all with newborns, asked if I was excited about the upcoming baby. My jaw went slack; my eyes narrowed; my gaze went a little hazy trying to peer far into the distance. Finally, I said, “I think so . . . um, not really.”
I just kept running the sleepless nights and days around in my head. Thoughts of the constant nursing, constant changing of diapers, explosive poops, and newborn fussiness didn’t help. My hair might as well be shaved off for it’s presentability, and I needed to stock up on some strong deodorant for all the about to be missed showers.
The fears of being a bad mother also came rushing back. As infancy progressed to childhood, those feelings had disappeared. My child was happy and healthy and apparently unaffected by my early status as a non-baby person. Ultimately, I was just short of terrified, but not enough to stop me from getting pregnant.
This time though, I knew I would enjoy having another child in the house, once they made it from lumpdom to actually having a personality. And I had to hold tight to the fact that I was not a bad mother for not enjoying the early months. But, alas, I have to finally admit, as my friend did to me, that I am not a baby person.
Top Tip #11
My famous, not a lot of mess,
homemade play-dough recipe.
3c flour
1 c salt
1c water
1/4 c oil
2T vinegar (optional but it helps it last longer. If you don't use vinegar, then add 2T water)
Add tempera powder for color after mixing the flour and salt. You can buy tempera powder at Michaels or Joanns. One container will last you about 5 years (no joke, unless you're a playdough making maniac). You could also use food coloring but I would probably add that at the end. Store in a plastic bag after use.